


Vacuums Suck

by Ewebie



Series: Guess My Race Is Run [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: From Paia's plot bunny farm, I'm going to need a new series now that I'm on twitter, M/M, Magical Realism, Serious Nonsense, Sorry Not Sorry, This is Paia's fault., This is just silly... no smut... soz, Twitter Prompt, Twitter short, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22986802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: The first time it happened, Mycroft almost didn’t notice. Almost. He did notice. That is to say, he heard it, registered it, and immediately dismissed it as incidental. The second time it happened, he heard it, thought it rather precious, and refused to bite back a smile.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Guess My Race Is Run [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/877377
Comments: 73
Kudos: 244
Collections: JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions





	Vacuums Suck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paia_Loves_Pie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/gifts).



The first time it happened, Mycroft almost didn’t notice. Almost. He did notice. That is to say, he heard it, registered it, and immediately dismissed it as incidental. The second time it happened, he heard it, thought it rather precious, and refused to bite back a smile.

“Oi, what’s that for?”

“You thanked your phone for setting the timer.”

Greg shrugged. “It’s so helpful when it’s hands free. And I’ve got,” he wiggled his fingers. “Grease all over me. Better off not ruining my damn mobile. I can hardly work it as it is.”

“Endlessly polite,” Mycroft murmured, turning his attention back to the papers spread across the table. There was certainly some old adage about mocking the person making your dinner, biting the hand that feeds you, and whatnot. 

Greg snorted. “Oh yeah. That’s me.”

~

Mycroft straightened the knot in his tie. “Did you just apologise to your alarm clock?”

Greg rubbed at his eyes and smothered a yawn into his bare shoulder. “Hm?”

“Your alarm clock.”

Greg blinked at it, the steady red numbers diligently showing the correct time. “Yeah?”

“You just apologised to it.”

“Did I?”

Mycroft raised a brow.

“Mn, wha’d I do?”

“You growled ‘I’m up, I’m up, shut up already.’ Then smacked the snooze button and said, ‘Sorry. That was rude.’”

Greg sniffed and scratched at the back of his scalp. “Yelling’s rude. Not ‘is fault ‘m tired.”

Mycroft tilted his head, studying the pillow creases left on Greg’s face. “I’m surprised you don’t use your phone. It must be easier to set than that clock.”

Greg glanced back at the clock. “Nah. I’ve had him since Uni. Totally dependable.”

“I see.” Mycroft hesitated, briefly afraid he was about to violate an unwritten rule.

“G’wan, out with it.”

“Are you a technophobe?”

Both of his brows shot up. “Technophobe?”

“I’ve merely noted that you prefer… Perhaps not vintage…”

Greg chuckled. “Look, Tori was all in for the bells and whistles and newest, most expensive, shiny, impractical thing with phone books for instruction manuals. And she took ‘em all with her. I’ve just not been arsed to get new things when the old ones are in perfect working order.”

“Pragmatic,” Mycroft hummed. It quite possibly extended beyond the practical into the very real financial strain of alimony, a preteen, and keeping up with the Joneses.

The clock elected to start blaring the classic rock radio station again and Greg shook his head at it fondly. “Oi, that’s enough out of you.” He clicked the alarm off with his thumb.

~

“BOLLOCKS!”

Mycroft abandoned his work and reached the kitchen in short order. “Gregory?” He was at the sink, running water over his hand and muttering to himself. “Are you alright?”

“Got a new kettle, did you?”

Mycroft noted the tea tray, the two cups and the pot. Camomile. It was, after all, that time of night. “I… did…”

Greg flicked the water off and blotted his hand with the dish towel as he turned, eyeing the kettle with suspicion. It continued to bubble and hiss in spite of having clicked off. “She’s right cute, I’ll give her that.”

“Cute?” Mycroft pulled the towel from his hands to examine the damage done.

Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free and unburned hand. “Handle’s in a different place, isn’t it? I wasn’t paying attention and grabbed the wrong spot. Stupid really.” The kettle let out a burble that rattled it against the base and Greg frowned.

The pads of his fingers were red and unnaturally shiny, but they weren’t blistered. Lucky, perhaps. Mycroft pressed a light kiss to his palm and released him. “I’ll pour the tea. Go sit down.”

“Yeah, alright.”

If Greg gave the kettle an unusually wide berth, Mycroft didn’t mention it. He instead turned towards the tea tray and added the freshly boiled water to the pot. The water steamed in a way that suggested it was perhaps too hot. Efficient kettle though.

~

It wasn’t often that Mycroft had reason or the availability to visit Greg at the Met. Often, if given reason, it wasn’t exactly a  _ nice _ reason. And it was never when Greg was having a  _ good _ day. Perhaps his timing could have been better. Then again, it was unlikely there was a good time to take a murder case from the Violent Crimes Division. And with his current caseload, Greg was likely going to need the help of at least one of the Holmes brothers. Mycroft preferred to think that he was, always and evermore, the lesser of two evils on that front.

“Come on, you right bastard!”

Mycroft frowned and closed the office door with a muted click.

“Don’t even think about eating that-” Greg let out a frustrated growl as the fax machine made a grinding and tearing sound. “Christ, how difficult can you be?! I’m going to throw you out the sodding window!” The feeder gave a whine of protest as he slowly dragged the paper free and smoothed it out. “I am giving you one last chance, do you understand me?”

Mycroft sat gingerly in the chair, watching Greg’s shoulders bunch as he threatened the fax. It was oddly endearing.

Paper freshly loaded, he punched in the number and hit start. Dial tone. Numbers. Ringing. Click. And the fax was beeping and whirring. “Good. Thank you. Jesus.”

Mycroft cleared his throat.

Greg jumped and spun. “Christ, Myc!”

Mycroft smiled politely. “Detective Inspector.”

“Oh…” Greg sighed. “It’s that kind of visit.”

“If only you were as tough on crime as you appear to be on office electronics.”

Greg snorted. “Don’t start. I’m short staffed. I’m underfunded. And we have to send half our BOLOs by fax.”

“What is the world coming to?”

~

“Atta girl.”

Mycroft was only half awake, following the smell of coffee and toast into Greg’s kitchen.

“Nearly there.”

He yawned blearily and dropped rather gracelessly into one of the kitchen chairs.

The toaster snicked as fresh toast popped up quietly. “You absolute beaut.” Greg pulled the pieces of toast out and set two onto a plate and directly in front of Mycroft. Followed by butter, jam, and a knife. Then a mug of coffee with the smallest dash of cream. A moment later, he brushed a kiss to the crown of Mycroft’s head and sat with his own toast and coffee. “Mornin’ Sunshine.”

Mycroft blinked. “Were you talking to the toaster?”

“Absolutely.” Greg took a bite of his breakfast and flashed a contented smile. “Perfect every time.” He winked.

The toaster clicked a few extra times as the elements cooled. Or maybe Mycroft had imagined it. He wasn’t fully awake yet.

~

“Go away!”

“Gregory?”

“No!”

“Greg?”

“No means no!”

Mycroft relocked the front door and followed the sound of Greg’s voice. “What is going on?”

“I said, No!”

Mycroft paused in the doorway to the lounge and tried, in vain, not to smile. “What on earth are you doing?”

Greg cautiously lowered one of his feet from the couch and nudged the robotic vacuum so it would turn the other way. It did, then promptly turned back towards the sofa and beeped as it whirred around the piece of furniture. Greg tucked his foot back to safety on the couch. “You got a Roomba,” he said flatly.

“It was a gift from Anthea. Efficient. And slightly more secure than letting a cleaning person into the house to vacuum daily.”

The Roomba continued to make its way around the sofa bouncing off the bottom of it and letting out beeps and chirps. Greg inched back from the edge. “I don’t like it.”

It was all he could do to keep from laughing. “Gregory… It’s just a silly robot. It’s not going to bite.”

There were a series of beeps and Greg gave a shudder of revulsion. “It’s rude.”

“Rude?” Mycroft made his way to the sofa and sat close enough that he could set a hand on Greg’s foot. The Roomba managed to completely avoid Mycroft’s shoes in favor of bouncing off the couch a few times next to Greg. “I can set it to run when you’re not here,” he offered. “And if it’s running and you want it to stop, you need only push the button and it will return to the dock.” Mycroft’s fingers brushed the Roomba and it beeped pleasantly. Greg flinched. So Mycroft pressed the dock button and the Roomba finally abandoned the couch, light on top blinking away as it headed off.

Greg continued to watch it suspiciously.

“Are you quite alright?” Mycroft gave his foot a squeeze.

Greg shook his head. “Sorry. I… I was napping, and I didn’t expect…” He trailed off, turning towards the changing rate of chirps. “Hey! NO!” He was off the couch like a shot. “You can’t…”

Mycroft followed him. The Roomba was spinning in a tight circle, a patch of grey fabric stuck in one of the wheels. “Oh dear.”

“Give it!” Greg snapped, dragging the fabric free and holding his rescued pair of pants aloft and away from the Roomba. “Jesus. Stop!”

The Roomba bounced off of his toes, then his ankle, then the back of his heel. And Greg twisted away, a bright flush inching its way across his cheeks as the Roomba beeped excitedly and repeatedly made contact with Greg’s feet. Mycroft blinked. Amusing as it was, it was also odd.

“Oh my God!” Greg back peddled, colliding with Mycroft and nearly falling over. “I will flip you over and leave you on your back!”

The Roomba chirped rapidly and Greg let out a disgusted gasp.

“Myc, do something!”

“I…” Mycroft shook himself. “Of course.” He stooped and toggled the Roomba off. It turned off as predicted and sat motionless in the middle of the hall. When he stood again, Greg was very nearly hiding behind him. 

“Is it off?”

“It is.” He watched Greg carefully for a moment. “Are you alright?”

Greg nodded, but took another step back. “Sure.”

“I see.” He did not. But he was certain that Greg was most definitely not alright. “Perhaps…” He considered the options. “Why don’t you go sit on the sofa. I will,” he waved a hand absently at the Roomba. “Put it away. And fetch us a drink.”

Greg nodded again, backing slowly towards the lounge. “Yeah, ok.”

He waited until Greg was a safe distance into the lounge before picking up the Roomba and shutting it in the coat closet. It could hardly cause any mischief behind a closed door. Now for a drink. Gregory was clearly upset and it didn’t seem like a wine conversation. Perhaps scotch. A proper drink. Efficient social lubricant. He procured two generous glasses and returned to the lounge. “It is in the coat closet.”

Greg glanced up and nodded slowly. “Yeah. Good.”

Mycroft handed him the scotch and settled on the sofa, waiting for Greg to take a sip before starting. “Care to explain what that was about?”

Greg huffed out a laugh, rolling the glass between his palms. “Don’t like your Roomba, ok?”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “I noticed.”

“I didn’t know you had it.”

“You were sleeping on the couch and the noise woke you?”

Greg winced. “Yeah.” He took a fortifying drink. “Chatty little bugger.”

“You said it was rude,” Mycroft offered.

Greg’s eyes went wide. “Figure of speech.”

He waited. When Greg didn’t seem inclined to offer anything further, Mycroft sighed. “You talk to objects.” Greg shrugged, so he continued. “Anthropomorphise items. Attribute personalities. It’s quite idiosyncratic.”

“You were closer with the first bit.”

“You talk to objects?” Mycroft considered it. Ran through the catalogue of eccentricities he’d noted in their time together. “Not objects. That was inaccurate. You’ve never spoken to a chair or a table. You don’t talk to the dishes. You don’t pronoun articles of clothing.”

He shook his head slowly.

“You… talk to appliances.” Mycroft gave himself a mental kick. Absurd as it sounded, electronics. “Phones, faxes, kettles, toasters, clock radios, the dishwasher…” He tilted his head. “The microwave?”

Greg offered a sharp, stiff nod.

“Why?”

Greg flushed. “You’re not gonna believe me.”

“That’s possible. Or, you grant me the benefit of the doubt.”

His brow furrowed, and Mycroft could see the argument play across his features. Finally, Greg finished his scotch in one large swig. “I don’t talk at them, I talk to them. It’s a conversation, right?”

“A conversation?”

“I can… I understand them. They understand me. I’m not… It’s not anthropomorphising. They… They’re,” he gestured. “I dunno. They’ve personalities.” He gave Mycroft a desperate and pleading look. 

Not hallucinating, no. It wasn’t a misguided conviction. It was honesty, but a truth that Mycroft could not wrap his head around. “Give me an example.”

Greg wet his lips. “I dunno. Um… Which ones have you heard me talk to?”

“Your toaster.”

“Right. Yeah. She um…” He ran a hand through his hair. “She’s steady. Does a good job. Likes praise. But if I don’t talk to her in the morning, my toast is a bit crispier than I want.”

Mycroft hummed. “You were yelling at your office fax.”

Greg laughed bitterly. “He’s a lazy curmudgeon. If you turn your back, he eats the pages. So I yell at him the way my old DI used to yell at me.”

“You burnt your fingers on my new kettle and said it was cute, I believe.”

“Yeah, well. She thought it was hilarious that didn’t know where her handle was and kept tittering at me the entire time.”

“Your alarm clock.”

“I don’t even have to set the station. He’ll play classic rock no matter what, and if the back up battery is low, he tells me. I’ve never overslept with him. And I tell him I’m sorry for being mad when he wakes me up, because I don’t want him to think I’m not grateful.”

“Your mobile.”

“My mobile?”

“When you use the voice activation.”

Greg shrugged. “That’s just manners. It’s common courtesy and it’s how I know I’m safe in the robot apocalypse.” Mycroft smiled and Greg’s posture caved slightly. “You think I’m crazy.”

“No.” Mycroft paused. It was the truth. “What exactly happened with the Roomba?”

Greg groaned and covered his face with his hands. “God, he’s…”

“Rude?” Mycroft offered.

“Explicit.”

“Expl-”

“Graphic?”

Mycroft sat forward. “As in…”

“Inappropriate. Pervy? And…”

“He robbed a pair of your pants.”

Greg blushed.

“And when I sent it to the dock?”

“It said that you were stroking-” He stumbled over the translation.

Mycroft’s brow went up. “You said you would turn it over on it’s back.”

“Not a great choice of words on my part.” He chewed on his lower lip. “Please don’t make me repeat anything he said. It was…” 

“Graphic,” Mycroft repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Interesting.” Mycroft held out a hand in a flourish. “Come over here.”

Greg hesitated.

“I won’t bite.”

“Oh god,” Greg snorted. “Don’t ever say that again.”

He smiled and tucked an arm around Greg. “Do I need to worry about any of the electronics here in the lounge?”

“Do you think I could nap in here if your DVR was lippy?”

Mycroft laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> **From Paia's Plot Bunny:**
> 
> Greg can communicate with electronics. At first Mycroft just thought it was an idiosyncrasy when Greg thanked the toaster each morning and patted the kettle when it boiled. 
> 
> But things got awkward when Greg met Mycroft's flirty Roomba.


End file.
